The Feeble Flickering Behind a Lampshade
by fickleAdoxograph
Summary: "Without passion, all will die. The most beautiful of roses will wither; the most successful of men will fall ill. When you have nothing of concrete value in the palm of your hand, Antonio, be sure to hold on to your passion." Old-fashioned London AU. One-shot. Rated M for adult themes.


___AN: Instead of updating Il Mio Canto Libero, or doing any of the other tasks I was supposed to, I spent the entirety of last night writing this. Around seven hours, and it wasn't even finished after that. I managed to bring it to an end just this morning, as well as proof-read it sloppily before throwing it up on here. Talk about procrastinating. Ugh. But whenever inspiration suddenly hits me like it did yesterday, I can never keep from writing it down. Which I guess is good, since it does not happen all that often._

___I actually intended to make it a lot darker though. I even considered sort of a pirate AU, since pirate!Antonio is very interesting, and I really love old-time AU's (this one is still set far in the past though, but I'm not sure when exactly), but as I started writing, the guy remained sweet and somewhat dense like usually. Hopefully it works anyway._

___Wow, this is dumb. Try to enjoy it despite everything._

* * *

At the top floor of the barren hotel he was staying at, one of the lamps in the corridor was saying its last prayers before destiny had its shine completely divested. The perpetual blinking had not bothered him at first, but was now setting him in a dreary state every time he had to see the flickering of light and hear the continuous buzzing. It tapped sound waves through the still air like an unsteady melody, and would it cross his mind to use his unstable payment on buying a new light-bulb, he would do so the next time he had money to spend. Never had he been so sure about anything before hit with the certainty that the haphazard blinking would drive him insane. One day he would smash the glass shielding the damned source of light with his knuckles; skin ripped open and blood cloaking his fist like spilled ink.

His spirit was long gone, his demeanour somber, and he had never missed the warmth, the lisping pronunciation, the smell of spicy food and the dark nights with unimportant women as much as he did now. The life he'd created for himself in Spain hadn't seemed enough for his craving mind. His mind which - much like a child's - had been ebullient and could create fantasies he later decided to seek out. So what was he doing in this hollow city? Why was he unable to leave the country so clearly not made for him? Money always seemed to play a big part of people's lives. It always seemed to be the most important thing. He had made impossible promises not to let it become his biggest priority, but now he feared he was heading down the same track everyone else had tumbled down without fighting against it or thinking twice about it. He wanted to return, or simply leave, if anything. But money was a limited resource, and he kept spending the small amount he managed to coax into receiving for himself on stupid things like... Like repairing exasperating lamps in gloomy hotels.

What made him so special then? Nothing, evidently. He was a foreign man, with tan skin and vibrant eyes, forgotten in the depths of London; a place of shifty old men and sinfully dressed girls... In his eyes. That was all it was. This place was driven and steered with money, greed, constant need for success and prosperity; although the lack of passion hit him like he would hit that god-awful lamp in the hallway.

"Passion is not all you need, but it is the base of everything you require to move further," he had been told once, as a small kid in the broken albeit warm house he'd called a home, a long time ago.

"Without passion, all will die. The most beautiful of roses will wither; the most successful of men will fall ill. When you have nothing of concrete value in the palm of your hand, Antonio, be sure to hold on to your passion." And what had been a confusing work of sentences to him then, now an inspiring advice to keep him smiling, had been ended with a wink and a smile. Back then, he had pulled a smile of his own, secretly spending the rest of the day trying to figure out what those words like math equations that were so often offered to him by his mother actually meant. He never got far though. Sure, he knew what he was being told, but the impeccable meaning in the whispers spilled from his mother's lips held a lesson he was to realise by himself as the years went on. As his parents who seemed so full of love and wisdom withered like roses once dramatically red, he set out for his own journeys. To become just as intelligent and wise. In the time he lived, not much of an education had been at Antonio's feet, but his lack of knowledge in science or spelling could not hold him back. Not ever. He still had his passion, which he was certain would get him far enough.

But in the silence of his hotel room, the loneliness of being accompanied by nothing else but stained sheets and empty bottles of wine, the lack of romance or adventure or fascination... How was he to stay positive? How was he to have even an ounce of hope inside him when there was nothing left? Somehow he managed to smile genuinely when he felt like he had to. Somehow he could still laugh at the drunk teenagers slurring and tripping over their own feet as they absent-mindedly traveled the streets outside his window. Perhaps Antonio was special, in a way. He would have liked to believe so. But he still yearned for someone else. He craved the heat of another person's skin brushing his own. Falling asleep with his mouth against a dear someone's neck, waking up beside them, laughing beside them and crying against them.

If he couldn't find romance along the streets of London, he would still his stirring need for social experience and closeness with that of the passion he knew he had in bed. Antonio wouldn't dream of replacing his ache for love with sexual intercourse, but he would take a chance to get tangled in the sheets if it meant it'd send even the smallest amount of bliss through his tired brain.

Only a few times before had he decided to use and be used for thoroughly sinful intentions, and it hadn't been all that remarkable. Judging by the way his partners groaned their pleasure on the mattress with him, he knew he was good at it. And the ones who had granted him temporarily ablaze moments had been impressive, doubtlessly, but he had a hard time getting goosebumps as he recalled these times since he had barely known the strangers inviting him beneath their covers. Sex was related to passion, he thought, but he was apparently talented enough to master the former without the latter. Perchance it had something to do with his choice of bed-mates.

Foreseeing another evening of cravings for the touch of another human, he intended to relocate himself to the streets downtown, well aware of the many men and women with desires alike his own he was to find there. They were often rather easy to spot, too. Although they often kept to the same streets, and most people knew this, so they did not stick out like black sheep among other white ones. Businessmen or upper-class ladies stayed away from this part of town. Perhaps he'd feel less doleful if he did the same. And had it not been for the dusty pockets and empty wallet of his, he would have been long gone from this place.

The tips of his fingers brushed the flat surface of the window, cold and hard, and he decided to put on his warmest clothes as so not to be appalled by the strikingly chilly and damp air outside like so many times before. How long it would take for Antonio to realise that he was no longer in his familiar Spanish nation, he knew not.

Like always, a thumping in his chest and a twisting in his gut took place, vaguely, as he headed out and tried to ignore the flickering light behind the lampshade. It was always like the smallest of adventures, roaming this shrewd place for someone of his taste. Silly, he thought, but he never really stopped being a kid at heart. Excitement could come as easily as hunger sometimes, it seemed.

He left the brown walls and the ragged carpet of the hotel and shoved his hands as deeply into his pockets as he could, vainly seeking warmth from a cloth that hadn't been on him for over twenty-four hours. It being cold was an inevitable outcome, with it hanging by the door of his rented room without - unlike himself - veins and heart trying their best to keep it warm by sending blood in a course round and round within it. This actually made Antonio rather glad, however, because he would never wear a jacket with inner organs. That would be like wearing the skin of a human being! The mere thought disgusted him, and raised the speed of his walk slightly, him desperate to find somebody and get back to the warmth of indoors.

Sometimes he wasn't actually looking for sex, were he to be honest. He was sure that the closeness of others was partially what kept him sane while living a life he wanted to flee from. If Antonio were to be completely alone, however, surely that would make his mind turn wry and odd.

His shoes clicked against the raindrops gathering in small puddles on the concrete, and together with other various sounds around him it created a mocking symphony, flooding his ears and reminding him of how uncatholic he was really behaving nowadays, as well as where he actually was. He sighed to himself. London was a nice place, he supposed, but it was not his Neverland.

The indistinct mash-up of different sorts of music flooding from some of the buildings he passed, honking of cars in the far distance, conversing and laughing and fighting and a sudden beer bottle colliding with a brick wall; it all floated together. Antonio could almost whistle in rhythm to his environment's orchestra.

One of the pubs always made him slow down as he walked by. Nearly every time would he stop completely and enter it, for he was an acquaintance of the pub's owner, and enjoyed getting alcohol for half the price as well as practice his ear for accents. R's rolled at the back of the blond man's throat, soothing tones hinting a certain self-security and a way to woo the women; he was French, and he had known Antonio since the day the latter arrived.

But today the Spanish man let his feet travel further, his eyes investigating buildings that hadn't crossed his mind as interesting before. They did not catch his attention much more this time either, though, but he intended to try out a new place. He had heard through the grapevine that the further down along the street you went, the further from innocence and religion flew your thoughts.

Antonio swallowed. He hoped not to run into someone who would be of any trouble. Dirtier women with more lace and younger boys with tighter shorts probably meant greasier men with guns and a wider amount of burglars. Who knew how many of these people actually carried a weapon.

All Antonio knew was that he was not one of them, and perhaps it had been a bad choice to come here. What did these peccant people have to offer him anyway? If anything they may have gone easier on his wallet, but he was certain that would come with consequences as well.

His pace slowed down immensely as children who looked no older than thirteen was acting frisky and accepting money from older men with stomachs like mountains and breasts like old hags'. He saw one woman with a cigar in between her lanky fingers, burgundy coloured lips, rings underneath her eyes and... was that a small beard?!

No, these parts of the street were no place suited for his taste, he decided, and turned around to settle for the pub he was familiar and comfortable with. It was somewhat cleaner than the others though, and he was less likely to find someone quickly agreeing to spend the night with him. He had come here for company, of what sort did not matter all too much... Well, as long as it was not someone he found repulsive (and to be honest, facial hair had never been his thing, really...)

He did not get all too far however, before something caught his attention.

A young male - looking to be no more than perhaps five or so years younger than Antonio himself (not that he would place a bet on it, he was no expert in guessing ages after only a quick scan of appearance after all) - was roughly shoved out of one of the pubs, a tall and broad man roaring at him from the threshold with spit flying from his mouth and eyes hued pink.

As Antonio had already noted, the boy didn't seem excessively young (compared to some of the others down the road), but still young enough for it to be inappropriate of him to wear clothes like the ones currently cloaking not so much of his body (it didn't seem as if he had made any bigger efforts at keeping himself warm). Neither could it be appropriate to get yelled at by some drunk, immensely older man who kept waving his fat cigar in between his fingers as he shouted, ashes falling to the ground.

The boy was scowling, although as Antonio walked closer he could see the features of his face better; smooth and young and with a fair, olive tone to his skin. Antonio could see the colour of his eyes; bottle green and soft brown and fiery orange hues tangled in a peculiar mess. His hair was a rosewood colour; his body slender but not frail. He seemed misplaced here.

"As if I wanted your small cock up my ass anyway, shithead!" He spat back with a rough tone, and a voice deeper than Antonio had imagined. He granted the man his middle finger, shoved it in the air with no worry of being beaten to ___death _by this guy, who was twice as big as the boy himself, ten times as drunk and out of his mind.

Antonio had taken for granted that this boy was another soul selling its body for money, which seemed about right. He walked up to him as the enraged male by the pub's door was coaxed into coming back inside by his friend.

"Are you okay?" He asked as he approached him, and earned a scowl shot his way as well, rather than an actual answer. This boy seemed bitter. So resentful for such a small, beautiful being. The Spaniard now realised the slight shaking of the boy's body, which must have been insanely cold.

"What do you want? You don't look very rich." The younger male remarked rudely, and Antonio couldn't help but to furrow his eyebrows.

"Did that guy look rich to you?"

The boy was quiet for a while, shifting from one leg to another as his eyes roamed the street ahead of him. "He looked to have more money than I do myself. But you... I'd say we're equal."

Antonio realised that it was still only about money. If his pockets were completely empty, they were of no use to each other. At least it was so in the younger male's eyes. But Antonio was cold - as the auburn-haired boy - and perhaps that was what made them equal. His happiness was broken and his optimism scarred, and pleasing lustful desires could be put aside if he could instead help this guy, plus get some company, ___plus _be back in the comforting heat of the hotel room he was just barely able to pay for.

However, something told him that inviting this person to his hotel room just to be nice and get someone to keep him occupied would have him failing miserably. So after rummaging through his pocket for a while, receiving confused and wondering glances from the boy, he fished up his wallet - old and worn-out - and flashed what was left of the cash he had managed to collect.

"One night." He said, turning a question into a statement. A determined one at that, too. The boy, now nearly shaking as if dancing a samba, looked tired though. He looked sick of what was going on, which the Spaniard could understand. Nobody picked a profession like that by own will. At least not young boys.

The daringly dressed male huffed. "Sorry, I'm closed for the night." He sniggered, turning to leave Antonio with that, his steps slow and his body moving gracefully. Practiced movements of attempts of seducing anyone watching. He moved like a delicate feline animal, and it worked well, too, Antonio found. He knew what he was doing.

But he had a feeling the boy was teasing him. No, he was down-right certain about it. But perhaps he did have a place to stay. Or else he would not turn down an offer including a warm bed for the night, even if it included sexual activities, of which he was supposedly tired of and/or sickened by. Perchance it was Antonio's own fault. After all, he could not be everyone's type. These sorts of people never seemed to be the ones caring about types, however...

The dark-haired man found himself in a dilemma, though, because even if sleeping with this ambiguous person was neither an achievable goal nor his intentions as of now, he wanted not to have met him on the streets of London, having been turned down, teased, and never encountered this boy again after it. Antonio could recall how he as a child captured a butterfly once. Butterflies hadn't been anything unusual to him. They were pretty, they were many, but he had sworn when his mother asked him to release the poor creature that no, he could not, for it was special. It looked not like the other butterflies, it played not with the other butterflies, and he wanted to keep it.

At the time, he had not understood that it was but a moth, wings pale and tattered, its unique appearance lovely in his wide, smaragdine eyes.

Now, Antonio felt a fool for comparing the two situations, but he couldn't help himself. This boy was his butterfly. And when Antonio had stubbornly refused to let it go again, his mother had sat beside him, quiet for a while, before her voice was heard, soft like silk.

"If you love your butterfly, Antonio, you have to let it back outside. It isn't going to love you back if you force it to stay with you. You'll smother the poor thing."

And as his grip on the glass jar released, she took it from him and put it on the ground by his feet, before exiting the room. Grumpily, he'd gotten up himself to allow his moth to depart. Without much ceremony, it flew away. Just like he'd imagined.

And, he was but a kid, and did not love the winged creature, just as he did not love this boy who he did not even know the name of. But at least it was a pretty metaphor, he supposed. A young boy on the streets of London, his skin chilly and his heart hard, who was actually a disguised butterfly.

Antonio sighed and scratched the back of his head. "Okay." he mumbled, not sure what else to say. What a push-over he must have seemed to be. At least the boy must have been thankful now.

With shaking hands Antonio put his money back, noticing the dusk floating like a dark and freezing layer over them. It was getting even colder, and darker, and he really should have gone out earlier. He was now to fall asleep alone once again.

Antonio's bottle-green eyes flickered back up, him ready to return to his temporary home. He was surprised to find the young male still standing a few feet away from him, looking astonished.

"You're not going to... try to... you..."

Antonio furrowed his eyebrows at the stammered sentence, confused and amused to say the least. But he refrained from speaking, giving the boy another chance, which he took after a few moments of heavy silence.

"You'll just give up... Just like that?"

Ah. A push-over, yes. Just like Antonio had imagined he would take him for. Explaining his butterfly theory would probably earn him a reputation of being completely nuts, so he decided against that though. A shake of his head, simple enough, and the young male looked nearly offended. Antonio was all but perplexed by the boy's reaction.

"I just don't want to force you, that's all." He said, unsure of if he was supposed to apologise for his manners. Apologising for being gentlemanly had never happened to him before, however. London was certainly something else.

The boy's hair hung over his face slightly, nearly covering one of his eyes. His arms were folded across his chest, giving him a stern ambiance, but the action was supposedly an attempt to keep some of the warmth in his body to stay there. He looked around them as if considering something, chewing his bottom lip pensively. Finally his orbs traveled back to meet with Antonio's, and he then nodded once.

"All right then," he spoke with a low voice, taking a few steps closer to the Spanish man beside him, who was nearly aching to keep himself from wrapping his coat-covered self over the other to protect him from the chilly breezes tickling exposed skin (which on the boy, was quite a lot.) "Are you staying somewhere?"

He raised his eyebrows, a bit shocked by the sudden change of mind. He was not to complain, however. Escaping these darksome streets and buildings – ___with _the boy - was the most realistic wish he could have gotten granted for the time being. Drunk singing, laughing, strifing could be heard from around them. The city was still alive, and Antonio thought that, although he could only speak for this part of London, perhaps it would be at all times.

He then nodded, motioning a hand towards the hotel's location.

Questions hit him suddenly. Demanded answers which, he supposed, really was not his to be given. To this boy, it was strictly professional. It was his job to please and be paid for it. But Antonio needed to try and get some sort of information out of him. Remaining strangers would not do for him, no. Because usually, he'd know at least name and age of the people he decided to bring back to whatever hotel he was staying in, hand-in-hand, ignoring the glances cast in the lobby as everyone knew what their intentions were.

"How old are you?" He asked, feeling as even though the boy could act, sound and look older than he might have been, Antonio wanted not to be fooled, or be another intoxicated, bearded man who left greedy marks all over an involuntarily unrighteous soul's skin and life.

Never had he considered that it might have been a sensitive subject, which it evidently was, judging by the way the younger's face fell somewhat, eyes fixed on the ground. His arms had snaked their way around one of Antonio's, and even though he knew it was part of the act, part of the successful attempts to seduce him, to give him what he was promised for giving a couple of bills away... He knew that none of what this auburn-haired boy did to him was genuine, but that did not stop it from sending the sparks across and inside him like it was supposed to. Making him feel special. In a way, he forbid himself to feel special, since he never would be in the perfect eyes of this young foreigner (Antonio could recognise a fellow Mediterranean accent anywhere), but he would still like to believe. If he kind-heartedly set the butterfly free, it was supposed to be grateful enough to love him. That was what the symbolic little story of his made it sound like. But now he thought it complete bullshit. It was stupid, he was stupid, and this boy selling his body to foul men because if he did not, surely he would not survive, was perfect.

"I just turned eighteen," it came out as barely a whisper; a sigh, and Antonio became curious as to how long he had been doing this. How many others had touched his olive-tinted skin? How many others had made him scream their name at the climax of pleasure? How many had he looked at with dark eyes and told them unholy sentences, causing blood to head south and heads to spin?

The worries from before settled inside Antonio though, since eighteen was still better than fourteen, for example. Four years made no sin, did it?

"Ah," Antonio nodded affirmatively, suddenly feeling as if they were acquaintances small-talking and taking a stroll, "and... Would you mind if I asked for your name?" He looked at the male beside him, clasped around his arm and still shuddering, "I'm Antonio." The smile splitting his cheeks was amiable and wide, wanting this boy to be comfortable with him. He did not really know why he tried so hard, however... As morning came with all its rights and obligations, this person would be gone from his hotel room. He would be left alone again with sheets to tell quite a few stories, wine stains on the carpet, and a lamp just outside still driving him insane.

The boy knitted his brows, before his expression softened. Either he was really bad at keeping the alluring act of his up, or else he wasn't trying, Antonio thought.

"Lovino," he said, "and before you ask – it ___is _my real name."

"Oh, okay..."

"I don't see why giving out my first name could have grand consequences. My surname is secrecy, though."

The Spaniard nodded with a smile, small and genuine, for Lovino's opinions seemed reasonable.

"___Lovino_..." He tasted the name on his tongue. Antonio thought hard about it, but failed to recall ever hearing it before. It must have been excessively unique. Perhaps then, even if revealing none else but one's first name, it was a bad idea when your first name was that unusual. However, Antonio would not use it for wicked intentions, so all was good as long as no one else knew, he supposed. Possibly it was a fake name though, after all. But, no matter if so, he did not question it.

They made their way to the hotel rather quickly, it not being so far away. The lobby wasn't as warm as his hotel room, but apparently still enough for Lovino to release his arm. With a fingertip trailing the skin across the Spanish man's arm down to sneak a hand in his own, Lovino sent shivers rolling down Antonio's spine. Antonio wondered if he knew this, and figured so.

Once in the hallway on the top floor, he glanced back at Lovino, who seemed to be scanning the interior quite a lot. Antonio had always been somewhat disgusted by the brown colours spreading across the mats and the walls, patterns in a lighter variant snaking its way across the floor in the corridor outside his room.

They faced the lamp still flickering and fighting for its life as if someone had asked it to never give up. Antonio noticed Lovino scowling at it for a moment, and couldn't help the small smile of delight on his face.

And he had nearly forgotten that Lovino had work-related intentions in mind, until their hands parted as Antonio pulled the door key from his pocket, and Lovino decided that now would be a good time to press himself against the Spaniard from behind, his hands like two cunning snakes over his abdomen. It took longer than usual to fiddle with the key, Antonio finding himself unprepared for this. Sex was nothing new, but Lovino was definitely something thoroughly new.

And as soon as they were inside the dark room, it smelling vaguely of a mix of claret wine, heat and hygiene products; Lovino was on him like a predator attacking its prayer - with touches light as feathers that still burnt through Antonio's clothes somehow, and licks and nips on the exposed skin of his neck, and soft moans that were really way too early but had immediate effect on the Spanish man. He managed to close and lock the door nevertheless, having a hard time comprehending all that happened in a sudden frenzy while the room was still dim and he saw next to nothing except the silhouette of the beautiful person in front and around him, creating a specious lie out of everything. He wanted to give this boy warmth, and a bed for the night, and even though he was a moth disguised as a breathtaking butterfly in Antonio's eyes, he had not intended to sleep with him.

But now he was not to deny the offer given to him. Lovino. He was not to deny Lovino. Who knew what this boy had been through? Antonio would be given the shallow pleasure of having him, and in return Lovino would have money that he probably needed more than the Spaniard did himself. They were equal. They could share their burning heat and a barren bed, and it would be felicity for Antonio if only for tonight.

The latter thanked the Lord for not having him forgetting anything on the bed as they thumped down on it, landing on nothing else but the sheets and some clothes of Antonio's. A shirt that needed to be washed, a sock lacking its partner, a scarf he hadn't thought of wearing when entering the cold air of London; he managed to grab them and toss them on the floor instead, forgotten as the two only concentrated on each other. Quickly the garments on the floor were joined by the ones having been on Antonio's and Lovino's bodies just now, as they crawled under the covers, tangled in each other.

Endless shivers and waves of pleasure and anticipation roamed Antonio's body, guided by Lovino's talented hands. His long, thin fingers caressed Antonio's back, from his shoulders to his shoulder blades and downwards, before cupping his behind and squeezing naughty.

Antonio lavished touches on the silk-smooth skin of the younger male, thumbs briefly petting sensitive nubs on the other's chest, and he was dying to know just how Lovino was feeling. His body was responding positively, Antonio had noticed that already, but what went on in Lovino's head? He felt desperate to know. Maybe the other was crying inside, unable to believe that he was doing this yet again. Maybe he was forgetting everything, the desires of his body taking over whatever his thoughts were trying to say. Maybe he wanted this just as much as Antonio did. Maybe Antonio was special.

But no, he could not think such things. He could not fool himself into believing that somebody who had sex several times a day, someone who charged him for it, would think that he was anything special. To Lovino, he was a body. He was paying for a daily meal or so, perhaps, but he was not a person. He was no... Butterfly, per se. And Antonio thought way too much.

He told himself to ___focus on the pleasure_, which was not all that hard, considering how talented Lovino really was in pleasing him. And yet, not much was done so far, but he breathed so deeply, and he sighed and he rolled his hips, and he furrowed his brows and he refused to let Antonio part their lips. The latter bit down softly into Lovino's bottom lip, pink and swollen, and Lovino moaned quietly.

But as Antonio's hand squeezed a thigh, and managed to crawl underneath Lovino to hold around his back, the sounds falling from his lips sounded more like whimpers, and eventually Antonio broke the spell he was stuck in, as well as their kiss with a ___pop _and hovered above Lovino to look at him. The Spaniard's eyes were somewhat adjusted to the dark, and he deducted the expression on Lovino's face to be one of pain, and panic rose within him. He swallowed thickly, reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, turning it on before the "No, wait!" that left the younger had registered in his mind.

He looked down, and the skin that had been covered before still seemed to be so, although of something else than clothing. Areas that had been neatly concealed before now showed patterned with dark spots and red scars.

He sat up entirely, straddling Lovino's legs. A tan hand reached out to carefully slide over some of the bruises, as if unbelieving to their existence.

"Lovino..." He breathed, confused and appalled.

"Are you going to fuck me or what?" Was his response, a bit hoarse and thoroughly guilty for reasons Antonio had no clue about.

The latter simply shook his head, slowly. "Who did this to you?"

Lovino was quiet for a few seconds before a sarcastic chuckle escaped him. "Customers, obviously. This is what they do to whores when they disobey or misbehave."

And Antonio could not answer to that. He saw the logic, yet he could not see the right in it. And were he to be honest, he did not think there was a right in it, at all. He stared at the body displayed in front of him, disgusted by what it had been through, still considering it beautiful. Lovino was still beautiful. He did not know this boy, and he knew next to nothing of his personality or his past, but there was something luminescent about him, something that made his bruises and scars and the fact that he sold himself to whoever was able to pay him for it transparent.

Lovino looked uncomfortable. Antonio had not talked for over a minute, and then he slid further down on the mattress, not looking up at Lovino as he spoke, but keeping his eyes drilling through Lovino's very flesh.

"What do you usually get to do when people pay you to sleep with them, Lovino?" Antonio asked, and Lovino furrowed his brows at the self-explanatory question.

"Well... Sleep with them?" he said, his tone making it sound just as obvious as it was.

Antonio shook his head. "I mean more specifically."

Silence pierced the air for a moment before Lovino answered, his voice quietly unsure. "Usually they just want to put their dick in something." His words were blunt, flat.

Tan fingers curled around the erection still between the younger's legs, and he twitched at the sudden touch, somewhat cold and unexpected. They stroke slowly; one, two, three times, before Antonio spoke again, his tone lower, quieter.

"No one is ever pleasing ___you_, are they?" He asked, teasing with another few pulls. Lovino opened his mouth to answer, but his words were replaced by a surprised moan. Dragged out, sincere. "I'll gladly be the first."

But Lovino wriggled under his touch, shook his head, looked a bit unsure. Of course, this was new to him. Unfamiliar. And he did not know Antonio, not really.

"No, you pay me to fulfill ___your _needs, asshole!" He cried out quietly as the Spanish man gave him a few more pulls.

"This is a need of mine," he said, "to pleasure you." And Lovino would have wanted to protest more, because this man was not making any sense. Was he too disgusted by the permanent marks to really sleep with Lovino? It would not be the first time the young male was denied and forced to return the money he'd been given as soon as the bruises on his skin were revealed. Although, Antonio did not look disgusted, and he did not scatter across the floor to put his clothes back on, and he did not swear at Lovino or tell him to get the fuck out. Instead, he'd looked at him with compassion. But Lovino needed no one's pity. He found himself unable to voice any objections or so, however, overwhelmed by the slow satiation spreading within him. This was certainly the first time he switched roles; the first time he laid back and groaned and bit his knuckles as somebody else worked to satisfy the needs his body had developed. And Antonio was good, too. Granted, it was not his first time.

Lovino had to stop him though, before it all became ___too _enjoyable. He had pushed the Spanish man off of him, every touch burning and buzzing like electricity. Antonio had looked a bit perplexed, but still smiled softly at Lovino, and gave him a minute before they were at it again, from the beginning, with gusto and twisting pleasure.

Antonio was careful where he knew there were sensitive, tinted skin, but he still touched him with liveliness, and still nipped at his flesh with avidity. Lovino dared for the first time to use his lips to suck back the way the other did, leaving small areas of Antonio's neck flushed and fragile. He'd learnt before that not only was he not supposed to mark his clients, for he belonged to them and not vice versa, but also that he never wanted to, save for when he received an unusually more attractive or young customer than usually. He ___wanted _to mark Antonio. Possibly because the man was pleasing to the eye. Possibly because he treated Lovino like something exclusive.

Antonio found Lovino captivating in the pale moonlight, all lamps - including the ever returning one in the sky - not providing him any light at the moment. But he was able to watch Lovino groan and sigh and having his breath hitch every now and then as Antonio was moving with and inside him, and they had been engaged in their activities for quite a while now. His forehead was damp, his arms somewhat tired, but he couldn't get enough of Lovino, and the latter seemed able to be taken to higher levels of delight judging by the way his legs tangled behind Antonio, pushing him against Lovino's body more and more, over and over again.

His hands rested on the back of the Spaniard's neck, fingers playing with short locks of hair every now and then, pulling almost a bit painfully when pleasure engulfed him. And Antonio's lips were on him almost the entire time, him wondering if there was a limit to how much he should have been kissing this person. If so, he was assured that he had passed it a long time ago.

When both had reached their peak and the out of breath huffs settled for silence in the room, Lovino lay on his side, heat on his skin and Antonio's body way too close to his own than he thought appropriate. Usually he would keep a certain distance between himself and the client sharing a bed with him as they slept.

Although Antonio wanted to drape an arm over the young male's torso, he refrained from doing so. Despite the fact that after a while had passed, Lovino's hand searched for Antonio's and casually clasped it in his own, Antonio wanted not to bend whatever boundaries might have been there. But his hand rested on the younger's hip, fingers in a tango with Lovino's own, and that was fine, too.

And Antonio was just about to fall into slumber when Lovino spoke softly, barely even audibly.

"I live alone with my brother," he said. Antonio forced his eyes open, idly listening as Lovino whispered on. "He's only sixteen... Although sometimes I almost think he's four."

Antonio let out a breath of laughter, squeezing Lovino's hand affirmatively, silently telling him to go on. It seemed evident that there was another point to Lovino's words, which he had yet to get to.

"Mother died when giving birth to him, and father died as well a few years later in a gunfire. He was always in the wrong place at the wrong time, that idiot, sticking his nose into other people's business."

"You're not from here, are you?" Antonio asked, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.

"I'm from Italy."

"Ah," he breathed, slowly nuzzling his nose into Lovino's hair. Just slightly, not wanting to be too affectionate, but rather showing his comfort. "I thought I heard an accent."

"Mm," Lovino hummed affirmatively, swallowing audibly. "Our grandfather took me and brother here since the economy in Italy was getting worse, and he'd heard somewhere that London was heaven. I wouldn't confirm that statement though."

Antonio chuckled quietly, his breath tickling Lovino's neck like a smooth feather across his skin.

He continued softly, a hint of bitterness in the sound of his voice as he spoke. "But grandpa passed away too, about two years ago, so we had to..."

His words died out, faded and fell silent, and Antonio squeezed his hand again. He had a feeling this was the first time Lovino told someone about this, and evidently, it wasn't easy. Just why he was telling, however, remained a mystery to the Spanish man.

Both refrained from speaking for several minutes, Antonio not daring to doze off unless Lovino was simply thinking before he wanted to spill more sentences. Antonio could feel his breathing was too light and slow for him to have fallen asleep.

And after a while, he uttered more explanations, sounding a bit grumpy. "I don't usually ___talk _to clients," he said, "not... not like this. I don't even think I'm supposed to. They don't want to hear it, but..."

The Spanish man smiled to himself, humming quietly.

"I know." He then said, assuring Lovino - who had obviously deducted that Antonio was one to actually listen to him - that no further explanation was necessary.

"Before grandpa died, he used to yell at me a lot for being disobedient, or acting too childishly, but he always reminded me that... According to him, I had a burning spirit unlike others, and that I shouldn't lose it." His words were mumbled and his tone humble. "But I think I lost it."

Antonio knew not what to say or how to answer to this. Instinct told him to deny Lovino's statement, but what did he know of this person, really? He'd seen and felt his body, had him reveal a softer side, but... After one evening together, he was unable to judge whether this boy lacked a spirit he supposedly once had. So Antonio said nothing. His thumb stroked Lovino's hand gently as a sign of comfort, him hoping it would help in some way.

"Would I have been alone, I reckon I'd be long gone. But I have to keep my brother alive, at least, since I'm the oldest. He's young, and innocent, and he couldn't do this..."

"But you can," Antonio whispered, "that must mean you have some strength left, right?"

"Barely." Lovino was incredulous to Antonio's words. He closed his eyes, wondering how late it was. There had been a clock on the nightstand, but on the other side of the bed. He felt too tired to sit up and check the time. It did not matter much, anyway, he thought. "Whatever fire grandpa was speaking of is burning out like an old lightbulb."

"It's still there though," Antonio took a small risk and placed an innocent kiss at the back of Lovino's head, "even if it's just flickering weakly."

Lovino let out a soft sigh, pulling at Antonio's hand to wrap his arm over him, Antonio a bit shocked by the action, albeit glad. He didn't doubt the fact that Lovino would probably still leave in the morning, but that only gave him more reason to fully enjoy the hours he had left, warm and accompanied.

"Tired..." Lovino muttered, earning a short chuckle from Antonio.

"Then sleep." He advised, closing his eyes to do so himself as well. Lovino did not answer, and after just a few minutes, he felt the Italian's breathing slowing down; becoming heavier. Antonio fell asleep not long after, a small smile splitting his cheeks, and a bittersweet feeling within him.


End file.
